


The Dragon's Heart

by Aly_H



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Dorian is cursed, M/M, Major Character Injury, Marked as M for the violence, Nothing sexy planned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-03-11 01:06:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13513548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aly_H/pseuds/Aly_H
Summary: In the forests near Clan Lavellan there is a manor built by humans and touched by magic that stands untouched by the wilds that surround it. Approaching it is strictly forbidden - those that try and never seen again.Injured during an attack on his clan a young elven mage finds himself trapped within this mysterious manor house and in the company of its monstrous sole occupant.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a "Beauty & the Beast" Pavellan AU.
> 
> Hopefully ya'll will enjoy it. ^^

The ruined mansion on the forest’s edge had caught his attention again – there was something about the place that seemed…tempting.

It was supposed to be haunted with lights moving inside it at night though no one lived there. And looters who tried to touch the place never returned. It was a Shem building but the villagers claimed that it was Dalish ghosts that haunted the place.

He doubted it.

It was supposed to have a grand _library,_ though.

Full of more books than he’d ever seen in his life, on all sorts of topics not just half-forgotten elvish lore and magics. Not that he didn’t adore each and every precious tome of knowledge that the Clan had collected…

A flicker of movement behind one of the curtains made him narrow his eyes at the mansion – was someone _watching_ him?

Frowning he turned and headed into the forest to meet his siblings.

They needed herbs and last time Siona and Hal had done the collections alone they’d managed to paint each other with a sort of luminescent moss. It might have been more amusing if the secretions had washed off quickly but instead as soon as the sun went down he’d had two faintly glowing siblings for a _week_.

“I heard from Roshan that Keeper was cross you were watching the old shem house again,” Siona commented.

“It’s got an aura is all,” he shrugged.

“What he means is that it’s probably got a _library_ ,” Haleir had stopped at a mulberry bush his fingertips already dyed purple. Siona’s eyes widened a little and she looked at her other brother – the responsible one – in askance.

“Hal – can you keep an eye on Siona, and don’t eat too many – both of you,” he relented. “I’ll collect the elfroot.”

“Yes!” Siona beamed, hurrying over to join Hal.

His brother’s yellow eyes caught his, a slightly apologetic expression. Hal was a free spirit, and not always the most responsible, but he didn’t like to let his duty fall on any one’s shoulders.

He gave a slight shake of his head and a smile, to let him know that it was okay. One of them – Hal or himself – would be leaving the Clan soon. Too many mages, they had defied tradition for this long so that the Keeper could prepare them more effectively.

They’d not talked about which one of them would go and which one would stay as First yet. Nor had they explained to the eleven year old Siona why one of her big brothers would have to go – they didn’t know _how_ to.

Elfroot was, thankfully a common herb, and he did not have to venture far to find enough of it – even a few sprigs of its rarer Royal cousin – to fill his basket.

A silence settled over the forest with a sort of deafening weight. The birds and beasts had gone still, even the rustle of the breeze seemed muted. Something nearby had disturbed the forest. Then in the distance a hunter’s shrill warbling whistle broke the silence, followed by another that was answered with the blasting roar of a battle horn.

He swore under his breath as he leapt to his feet – rushing for the berry patch he’d left his siblings at. He needed to find them and make sure they got back to the Clan and help defend his people-

The first group he found weren’t prepared for an attack so far out from the main camp. When an elf appeared in their midst with the glittering sword in hand they scrambled, stumbling over one another and were ultimately cut down.

The elf spared only a backwards glanced to his dying opponents as he pushed forward. The patch of berries where he had left his siblings only a few hours ago lay devastated.

Siona’s magic had pulled the thorny plants to her defense so that most of the thorns glistened red with blood and a limp hand protruded from beneath the earth at the foot of a tree. Doubtlessly its owner had suffocated when the plant had dragged them below.

There were plenty of signs of Haleir’s magic as well. It was his gifts that had left the earth gouged out and at least one corpse caught in the tree branches above them.

The red haired elf felt a sort of grim sense of pride in his siblings – the _shem_ had doubtlessly thought that the pair would be easy prey. One young man and a little girl, but Siona was _already_ more talented magically than either of her brothers and Hal didn’t believe in restraint.

Perhaps in a better world he would have mourned that his siblings had to fight at all but they were Dalish and Thedas was _not_ a better world.

He skirted the forest by the manor-house hoping that the building would draw the attention of the humans and they’d go investigate it rather than pay attention to hunting elves.

“ _Kaffas_ , they’re gone,” a voice spat nearby, and he bolted against a tree, back pressed into the bark. The humans spoke with northern accents. Slavers, not bandits looking for easy treasure. “You sure those two brats are worth the trouble, sir?”

_Quiet_ , he thought adjusting his grip on the hilt for his spectral blade as he tried to soften his breathing.

“They will be,” this voice was accompanied by hooves. “I suspect our eavesdropper will also prove profitable.”

He rolled forward, just as the ice mine detonated where he had been standing, wincing as he set his feet and raised his now manifested blade into a defensive position though he could feel the cold clinging to his muscles, slowing him.

He drew up a barrier, wanting to hold out engaging the swordsman as long as he could so that the effects of the ice magic working against him might fade. It was unlikely as the mounted mage loosed a fire spell that nearly brought the barrier down with a single strike.

“Fen’Harel take you,” he spat as he deflected the spear whose thrust brought down the protection.

“Just injure him,” the mage called, apparently content to watch his people work.

Green eyes narrowed as the elf back stepped from the next thrust, knocking it away. Bandits were one thing, professional slavers something else entirely. When one overextended himself on a thrust the mage took the chance to break the spear shaft with the spectral blade.

One man died on that blade after and the elf injured the other enough that he’d fallen back with a curse and a promise that he’d pay for it _later_ as the mage watched and assessed the fighting elf with a sort of unaffected curiosity.

There was the sound of an explosion and the earth beneath their feet shuddered – and the last of the goons used the momentary to drive point of his spear into the elf’s shoulder and use the height and weight advantage to drive the elf to his knees.

His head swam – pounded more like - as he refused to cry out.

The spectral blade sputtered then died in his hand, the hilt cold in his fist as the magic fled from him. The men had all carried swords, but they hadn’t used them.

_Mage bane, mixed with something else_ , some part of his mind recognized as he seized the last bits of the Fade that still answered and threw a ball of fire into the face of the spearman. Predictably the man released the spear, dodging back, which gave the elf time to drag it from his wound and toss it aside, staggering to his feet.

Without magic he was defenseless and whatever else the weapon had been tipped with caused his vision to swim as he made his decision.

He turned and he _ran_ , bolted the direction opposite of the man on the horse and the slavers. His mind vaguely recognized crossing out of the forest and into the cleared area around the manor house but more focused was he on the sound of hoof-beats.

Then the horse screamed behind him as he reached the door to the old house and without thinking shoved it open as the last of his strength gave out, falling over the threshold.

Something scraped in the darkness and he rolled onto his back to see a shadow loom over him and clawed hand reaching down –


	2. Chapter 2

Of course he’d known there was a fight going on outside – a group of slavers from what remained of his homeland’s empire was attacking the nomadic elves that often stayed near to here during the last vestiges of summer – near enough he’d seen at least one of their number regularly over the years.

One of the younger ones often paused to stare before being dragged back into the forest by who he had always presumed was his brother.

It angered him – of _course_ it angered him – but he could do nothing trapped in the mansion as he was. As he had been for so long even _he_ wasn’t sure how many centuries had passed.

Then the door had flown open. The elf collapsed to the floor, a smear of blood on the door where his weight had leaned for just a second before the hinges had swung open under his weight. At the sound of his approach they managed to push themselves to their back.

Dorian looked out the door – the slavers had met with the shadows that kept anyone from crossing the threshold, and some of the wraiths had turned their attentions from the now overwhelmed mage and his horse to the elf that lay on the floor.

It was a foolish thing – death might have been preferable but he reached down and seized the elf to drag him the rest of the way in the door and slam it closed in the face of the howling ash-beasts that would soon slink back beneath the earth to wait for the next one foolish enough to enter their domain.

The scent of blood mixed caught his attention – he had no time to muse over the workings of the curse today. Where the magic sustained and would heal _him_ it would not protect the elf.

Carefully, and as gently as his taloned hands would allow he lifted the red haired man to the couch and set about collecting what he needed to treat the injury. In all his many years he had never studied healing – even as a young man his talent lay with the dead, not those still breathing.

The poultices applied and bandaging done as best as he could recall how to do it he sat gingerly nearby to study the elf who’d literately fallen through his door.

Long red hair was tangled and messy with blood and dirt from his fighting. His skin was tan from a lifetime in the outdoors. A tangled weave of dark purple lines formed the shape of one of the elvish slave markings – a scar cut down across the young man’s left eye, old and long healed but deep enough that it stood out.

He was familiar, though it took a moment to place.

For years a red haired elf had lingered at the edge of the border, watching or occasionally prodding at the spells that lay on this place with his own magic. Never venturing near enough to wake the curse. He’d watched with a sort of curious amusement as a bare-faced youth had grown taller and gained the shadowed markings.

He’d often wondered what about this place made the elf stop to stare, what about _him_ made it impossible not to watch back.

Now the Curious One was the first in _centuries_ to have entered this place, that the shadows had not killed before they could reach the house but why?

Was it luck? Coincidence? One of the silent gods tugging at fate’s strings?

On instinct he reached out to brush aside some of the hair and touch the young man’s forehead. Not that he’d be able to feel whether the elf had a fever or not, he thought irritably with himself as he leaned back to resume his vigil to try and compose some way to explain all… _this_.

As remarkably gifted with words as he had once been when more familiar with using them he wasn’t sure that it was within his ability to craft such an explanation.


	3. Chapter 3

Fighting his way back to consciousness was difficult, he felt trapped beneath a heavy weight that he struggled against upon instinct. The sounds of the Clan – of the Halla nearby – were missing, but as was the smoke and fire and blood that some part of him knew he _should_ be aware of instead.

The blanket fell to the floor as he shoved his way up, shivering at the sudden release from beneath its confines.

For a moment he thought he was alone – the inside of a _shem_ building, a fireplace burning not far to cast light into the room. Then the sound of _something_ breathing drew his attention to the shadows at his right, closest to where his head had been.

_It_ was asleep.

A great toothy jaw hung slightly open to show teeth pointed and razor sharp, an elongated muzzled to fit such weaponry into that maw. Scaled, bony ridges extended upwards to create the impression of brows. Spiked frills extended backwards where ears might have been from these and a black mane grew out from behind these.

The creature shifted slightly, talons glinted gold in the firelight as they flexed to score the wood beneath them lightly.

_Mythal’enaste_ …

The thought must have been breathed aloud because the creature stiffened and straightened, its jaw closing as it came to. Silvery eyes gleamed like ghost-lanterns in the firelight, and slowly it rose, extending a hand towards him.

He bolted to his feet and quickly out of range of those deadly claws. Unarmed and with his shoulder already aching under the strain of these short movements he needed to think quickly.

“Stay still!” the creature commanded, “If you don’t stop moving you’re going to get hurt!”

He narrowed his eyes - there was a door, he could see it in the corner of his eye, he just needed to give himself enough time to get through it before the creature could carry out the threat.

The magic that curled around the center of his being was flickering dangerously low. There was no chance at winning any sort of conflict here – not when he was without a staff to focus the casting already.

He slid a step back, raised his hands and cast a fireball at the creature. It was a weak thing, more flash than heat which could have done no real harm even if the creature _hadn’t_ raised a barrier that dissipated it almost immediately but as soon as the spell left his fingers he turned on his heels for the door and bolted.

It was thrown open and his foot had hit the ground outside – the forest and the way to his clan in sight when a great shadow rose up with claws and snapping teeth and a snarling howl like the voice of Fen’Harel in his path.

A great clawed arm wrapped around his waist and dragged him backwards, the creature throwing him back against the furniture and slamming the door shut with a force that made the windows tremble noisily.

Silver eyes looked down at him, brows coming together as they watch the wary elf slowly drag himself to his feet with the support of the couch whose back he’d been thrown into.

“I’m…sorry.”

There was a world of grief in the scaled stranger’s voice, as he looked away, not quite meeting the green gaze set upon him but also watching the elf for any more signs of reckless behavior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas, poor Dorian, as always, a victim of poor first impressions.


	4. Chapter 4

The elf wasn’t steady on his feet by any means – and in his fear and hurry to keep them safe from the shadows he had injured them again, or at least caused the wound on his shoulder to tear afresh. He could smell the blood in the air between them.

The elf was wary and still looked ready to bolt again at any moment, but this time he didn’t move and there was no more attempts at casting, though given how weak the fireball from before was that may have had more to do with inefficient mana than the elf’s own desires.

As long as _he_ stayed still it looked like the elf was willing to.

“I’m sorry, but you’ll never survive trying to leave,” he kept his tone as gentle as he could – hoping his voice didn’t sound as strange to the elf as it did in his ears after so long without use. “But you’re safe in here, nothing will harm you, I promise.”

Unthinkingly he lifts his hands in a placating gesture that from a human might have been comforting.

There’s a flicker of emotion across the elf’s face that could only be doubt as the emerald colored eyes catch on the claws gleaming in the low light. And immediately he drops his hands back to his sides guiltily.

 “…I have to go – my clan is in danger – my family.”

He shook his head, “You’ll be glad to know, your siblings are safe – I saw them while you were unconscious.”

“How did you – no, you’re certain?”

“I don’t make mistakes like that,” he tried to grin, and this time the gesture translated on his less than human visage didn’t seem to frighten the elf. Instead he leaned heavily back, the fight draining out as to show the exhaustion that had glimmered beneath.

Still that was an improvement. A little more and he could convince the elf to sit back down and let him tend to the injury again…

“…my name is Dorian,” he offered.

“That sounds like a _shemlen_ name – what are you?”

The elf was wary, guarded in a way that didn’t seem as if it was an unusual sort of behavior for the young man. Perhaps something to do with why groups of elves tattooed with slave-markings, apparently by choice, chose to live nomadically and venture far from any cities that he knew of.

There were so many questions about the outside world he wanted to ask but there’d be time enough to satisfy his own curiosity later, wouldn’t there?

“You’re quite correct,” he answered instead, “I _am_ human, though ‘quick child’ is a little inaccurate, I should think. Unfortunately I have been cursed to live through the centuries confined to this house looking like _this_.” He gestured at himself.

“The magic on this place,” the elf murmured to himself, brows furrowing together in thoughtfulness. “You are of Tevinter?”

“Not the Tevinter you know, I assure you. Nor did I truthfully belong to the Tevinter _I_ knew.”

“Magisters and their curses,” it was a muttered huff, just loud enough that he caught it.

“I’m not a Magister,” he replied irritably – _Southerners,_ still he was an elf not some Alamarri savage he should know better than to assume all Tevinter mages are Magisters. “I am not some old fool waiting for a God to whisper secrets to me in my dreams. I am quite capable of studying magic without such nonsense.”

“...” the elf frowned at him, apparently perplexed by the statement in a way that overrode the previous suspicions. Before he agreed emphatically with Dorian’s previous assertion, in a tone that might have been amusement under-laying his voice:  “Definitely not the Tevinter I know.”

“I know you must have many questions, but you are safe here. I will not allow harm to come to you while I am here. I swear it.”

Green eyes regarded him and the slight turn of the smirk from the previous statement faded. “I believe you.”

The relief at the statement was short lived for Dorian however as it seemed that his wariness had been all that had kept the elf on his feet. He staggered a little, swearing under his breath in elvish as he slid down against the back of the couch to the floor.

“Kaffas,” Dorian swore as he hurried to see to the injuries once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to take a moment and thank everyone for the support they've been giving this story. Stylistically this is a bit of an experiment for me and it means a lot that ya'll are enjoying it with me.


	5. Chapter 5

It took him two weeks to recover enough from his injuries to make a proper exploration of the house and even then it was driven more by his desire to not be lost _and_ running on fumes than it was that he was healed.

The walls – the lack of the wind, the silence where he should’ve heard the Halla bleating or at least birds singing – made him feel itchy and trapped when confined to one of the bedrooms. He missed his family.

All of which manifested as an unreasonable amount of irritability towards Dorian – Creators, he hadn’t even told the…man? his name.

He owed him his life and most of what had come from his lips had been unreasonable curt or harsh.

He had plenty of experience with needing to apologize for idiotic, unfair behavior. Mostly with his brother – he’d gotten frustrated with Haleir for things that shouldn’t have mattered at all often enough. Or with the Keeper when, like most young mages, a mistake – honest or born of arrogance – had set something on fire that wasn’t meant to be on fire or turned the hahren’s hair blue.

Experience wasn’t the same thing as grace.

Here he couldn’t go out and look for difficult to find herbs until he had reasoned with himself that never showing his face again wasn’t actually the right way to handle when you did something wrong.

What he _did_ have was numerous rooms in the house and sharp ears.

Dorian’s tail and taloned feet made a distinct noise when he moved as he slipped out of a room that seemed to have been for entertainment at some point – pieces a smashed table and pieces of glittering crystal and glass littered the floor in the room – he could hear the sound coming down the hall.

The auburn haired elf bit his lip – what he _should_ do was stay, greet Dorian and apologize for his recent behavior…what he _did_ was open the first door he saw and slip inside soundlessly, closing it behind him and lean against the door listening.

Dorian’s footsteps stopped outside, and for a moment he was certain that the door was going to open and there’d be even more cringing silences between the two of them when they _were_ in the same room but the footsteps continued on their way down the hall instead.

He breathed out a sigh of relief, before taking the time to really observe the room he’d found himself in.

A dusty window on the fall wall would have looked out at the interior courtyard he’d yet to find a doorway into. The room was dark with bulky shadows of furniture. He called up a wisp of magic, something so that he could see by.

Most of the bulky objects in the room seemed to have – at one time – been paintings. After he shifted a few he could see that those whose canvases had not been scorched black had been torn to ribbons on their frames.

He turned around to nearly shout as he came face to face with a gaping dragon’s maw. A statue like the ones that they had in Tevinter as part of the altars – he’d seen them drawn in the old books. It was nearly entirely broken, deep claw marks scored into the stone flesh. In the flickering blue-green light of his magic it looked chillingly alive.

The pedestal at his back wobbled with the force of his impact and sent what was set on it shattering to the floor. Sufficient cause to tear his eyes away from the blood thirsty snarl of the false dragon.

Careful not to step on any of the shards with his bare feet the elf crouched to see what he’d broken, lifting up one of the larger pieces. An eye stared up at him from beneath what remained of what had likely been an impeccably groomed eyebrow, the remnants of a silvery-gray paint chipping away to the white stone beneath.

There was something about the false gaze that felt…

Shaking his head he set the broken piece aside and lifted up another: lips that looked too soft to belong to an evil magister, like even under the severe gaze of the artist who shaped this piece the face’s owner hadn’t quite been able to completely erase his smile.

A glint of gold caught his eye from among the stone and he picked that up next.

The plaque had likely been attached to the base of the bust prior to his rather elegant first hand introduction to ancient Tevinter statuary.

Now he picked out the letters carved into it with narrowed green eyes, his ancient Tevene was bad but he could make out a few words.

In larger script the lettering declared that the subject of the bust had been Dorian Pavus, son of the Magister Halward Pavus.

That was ‘my son’, and that one there was ‘feast’ or maybe ‘celebration’? A special event of some sort. That one was ‘marriage’? Or ‘betrothal’?

Was Dorian a common name in Tevinter? The crest for the family the bust had worn was the one he had seen throughout the house. Another piece of stone caught his eye – the nose had been scored as if slashed across by a great taloned hand – a blow struck in anger that he personally doubted Dorian capable of harboring towards anyone _except_ himself.

Lifting the eye back up to examine it he frowned at the face that had once belonged to the owner of the house. The elf brushed his finger across the eyebrow, wanting to be certain that what he saw was no illusion.

“What happened to you to cause all this?” he muttered.


	6. Chapter 6

Wielding a quill with clawed fingers was a hard earned skill bought by some centuries of practice - made possible by the fact that his laboratory seemed constantly stocked with precisely what he needed at that time. The whole manor was like that – anything he needed or wanted was present it just sometimes required searching.

Worry had him grip the thin shaft too hard as he tried to note down the ingredients for this latest iteration of the spell he was constructing. It shattered.

“Kaffas,” he swore, glowering at the broken feather before he threw it to the corner of the desk with the other two.

Dorian knew _exactly_ the source of his irritation – that elf.

The pretty auburn haired one with green eyes, the one now just as trapped by the curse as Dorian himself was. A pang of guilt pricked twisted his gut and he glared at his reflection in the glass tubes bubbling away with one of the potions he was attempting to create.

He’d done it to save the elf’s life, he _knew_ that, and that what he’d done was the right thing but it was also his fault that the man was now cursed. He just hoped that the other parts of the curse weren’t as contagious as the enforced home arrest.

It’d taken _months_ of painful transformation as the spells rewrote his biology at a very basic level before he no longer resembled anything close to human. Even with centuries to dull the memory it was not an experience he would wish his new house guest to experience.

He would have to watch for signs of it…not that he exactly knew how to broach that particular topic: “Hey, I know I’m the dastardly Tevinter at fault for all your problems, but there might be one more to worry about – mind letting me know if you start sprouting scales?” _That_ would go well.

A more selfish part of him missed the solitude. There was something resentful bundled tight in his chest when he caught those green eyes observing the curve of his claws or the wicked points of his fang-like teeth. Dorian wasn’t sure if he resented the elf the good looks – he’d been at _least_ as pretty back before this all happened – or if he simply resented being examined like a beetle caught beneath spelled magnifier.

Not that that resentment was a frequent occurrence. If it was he might’ve been more able to examine which of the two theories was correct in more detail. No, he’d hardly seen the elf since he’d started moving around.

He wasn’t a fool: he knew that the elf was avoiding him.

In his position Dorian would likely have avoided the grotesque monster that haunted the mansion too. He could hardly blame the elf for it.

But…for the first time in a very long time Dorian felt really and truly lonely.

Being on your own when there wasn’t anyone around was easier – he could let himself be absorbed by his experimentations - with practicing magic for magic’s sake and his own learning. There’d be no presenting to his peers, no preening with the praise of those less capable mages, after all, and so magic had to be its own reward. It was one of the few things that this curse had not been able to steal from him.

That and there never seemed to be enough wine in the house to get his draconic form drunk.

And so for a long time spells had been all that kept his company – his only salvation.

Now that there was someone else it was a stark reminder that a world existed beyond the forest’s edge that his home looked out upon. And it was a reminder that even all these years later he was a pariah – an outcast in a population of two.

“Enough sulking, Dorian,” he told himself, going to find a fresh writing utensil. “You told yourself you’d crack this this century. Having a guest just means when you do it you have someone to _really_ astonish.”

He had _plenty_ of practice being ostracized. He had held his head high and twisted it into his own private protective barrier in the Imperium, he sure as hell could manage to do the same in his own home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, that's the last of our independent chapters. Jeez these boys are stubborn about just talking to each other, huh? ^^'


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look, two in one day!

The room was in the lower level, clear of everything – traces of old spell circles long inert were visible on the floor, crystalline spell-quartz had lit up when he’d opened the door. An empty space with nothing to break by accident – _again_ \- and Dorian wasn’t likely to be bothered by his exertions here.

The house’s owner had locked himself in the study since the previous day and so another sunset and sunrise had come without them really properly talking.

With the sunrise there’d been a surprise to discover the sword laid across his dresser that morning. It was a dull practice blade and exactly what he needed to burn off some of that agitated anxiety that burned through his gut.

He closed his eyes and breathed out softly, giving his head a quick experimental shake – the long red hair stayed imprisoned by the pony tail he’d hastily thrown it up in that morning. Then he began to move slowly through a simple guard – strike –guard pattern with the blade.

Knight-Enchanting was a Chantry magic - similar to the magically imbued warriors of Arlathan but still Chantry - but it was useful. A staff drew attention when coupled with the violet weave of the _vallaslin_ which marked an homage to Sylaise across his face, attention no mage needed, a bladeless hilt looked strange but it was also easier to hide.

He continued moving through more complex patterns until the ache in his healing shoulder had progressed past ‘dull ache’ and into the realm of real pain and a sweat had formed at the back of his neck and beneath his shirt.

“I thought you were a mage,” the voice was light – teasing almost. “Not that I’m complaining about the show.”

Color rose in his already flushed cheeks as he turned to meet the silvery gaze of his audience. He’d left the door open behind him when he’d come in but he hadn’t heard Dorian’s arrival.

“I am – but I didn’t want to use mana and your house gave me a sword,” he lifted it up, keeping the point down, in demonstration despite knowing Dorian had been watching him practice sword-forms for the last who knew how long? “At least I think it was your house – I assumed that it’s the thing that keeps leaving things for me when I turn my back.”

“Ah, yes, that _would_ be the house. It does that, I’ve never been able to figure out _how_ though,” Dorian nodded, leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed – his great reptilian form filled it nearly completely – was he _hunched_ over to keep from hitting his head? It looked like he might be. “Not unsettling is it?”

“I’ll adjust,” he reassured him. “I was hoping to talk to you.”

“You were? Why?” Dorian tensed, drawing himself tighter and somehow managing to make himself look smaller – less threatening – despite his drake like visage.

Guilt made him drop his gaze and look away – how long had it been since anyone had kept the man company and he’d been there sulking like a child since his arrival?

“I wanted to apologize,” he said clearly, forcing his gaze back up – Keeper Deshanna’s voice echoing in the back of his mind: _Sincerity is in the eyes, if you mean what you say you can look them in the eye. And, if you are to be the Keeper someday you_ must _mean what you say, da’len._ “I would be dead if not for you, I’m grateful that you saved me Dorian. I should not have taken out my frustrations regarding this situation – _our_ situation – out on you.”

Dorian was staring at him, one scale brow seemed to have raised slightly higher than the other and his ear-frills seemed to prick forward a bit like a cat’s listening ears. Confusion, or maybe surprise.

“Ah, no, it’s, uh, it’s quite alright,” the man shook his head, the brows returning to equal height and the ears going back to their resting position. “You’ve had a lot to adjust to.”

“And you haven’t?” he retorted, feeling a smile creep onto his lips.

Dorian’s chuckle was warmer than he would’ve thought possible, “A fair point, actually. It’s strange having company after so long.”

He moved to set the sword, down and moved as close to Dorian as he could before either of them were arching their necks uncomfortably to meet the other’s eyes. “I don’t think I ever told you, but my name? It’s Taralyn. Taralyn Lavellan. It’s an honor to meet you, Dorian.”

“It’s good to meet you too, Taralyn.”


	8. Chapter 8

A snatch muttered elvish laden with some rather filthy language regarding where the Tevene language could stick its conjugations caught his attention – and drew his gaze from his own reading.

He’d meant to go down to the lab some hours ago and continue his research but had discovered that the library had conjured up new reading material. Not for him – the enchantments had stopped providing _him_ with new books ages ago – but with Taralyn’s arrival the house seemed to have taken a liking to the elf and new books had appeared on his shelves.

Dorian had been enjoying the Tethras fellow’s writing more than he was going to admit. Though he still wasn’t quite sure why the dwarf’s writing had shown up.

It’d been months since Taralyn had joined him – reflected sunlight from the snow outside filtered in making the room brighter than the well-furnished fireplace that Dorian was lording near managed to.

The elf had taken up residence by one of the larger windows that looked out into the tangled courtyard garden where the bones of a fountain still stood: a horse pawing its way from amidst the overgrown vines and plants. One of the more plush chairs had been dragged from its original place to the window not long after Taralyn had discovered the library. It hadn’t taken him all that much longer to requisition one of the smaller tables from another room to hold whatever snacks the house had opted to provide.

The elf had hopped up, stalking the shelves for another book before carrying it to the chair, sitting cross legged with both tomes balanced on his lap as he hunched over them as if getting nearer to the pages would help find what he was looking for quicker.

It was slow going: whatever research the elf had chosen to conduct - and he wasn’t sharing with Dorian what _that_ was - required that he spend almost as much time teaching himself the language the texts were written in as it did actually reading them.

A smile tugged at Dorian’s lips – it was so easy to imagine what it would have been like to study beside Taralyn in a true academy. Any Circle would have been lucky to have such a student attend – if any of them were capable of overlooking their idiotic prejudices regarding the pointed ears.

 _You would have made a royal ass of yourself,_ he thought, eyes sweeping over the way the elf bit his lip switching back and forth between his references.

“You’re staring,” green eyes flicked up to him. “Is something wrong?”

“Does something have to be wrong for me to take a moment to admire the view?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Nothing could ever happen between them – he _knew_ that, gods did he know it was impossible but sometimes his tongue ran away with him before his mouth caught up.

That got him an eye roll and a slight scowl before Taralyn ducked his head down letting a curtain of auburn color hair fall between them – not quick enough to hide the blush though.

He’d been down this path before, when he was…when things were different. He needed to stop himself from going down it again when a happy ending was truly impossibly far from his grasp.

Taralyn had never complained about the flirting, but he never returned it either. He hoped that meant the elf took it as Dorian simply joking a little and failed to register the real longing that the words sprang from.

“How fares Guardsman Donnen?” the question came after he’d been ignored for a few breaths.

“Kirkwall seems very unkind to its would-be hero,” Dorian grinned – so perhaps it wasn’t _quite_ a mystery as to why the house had decided on the sudden influx of Tethras to the library. He carefully closed the book, careful not to score it with his talons as he set it aside. “Who can wait a while longer, I think.”

“Off to your experiments?”

“Not yet,” he shuddered – the laboratory was located underground beside the room that Taralyn had taken over for his training routines and practices. It was also very _cold_ during the winter and he did not wish to depart from the warmth of the fire – but he’d been sufficiently distracted that the Guardsman’s adventures no longer held his interest. “Do you need any help?”

Green eyes glanced down at the pages of the books he was studying before the elf looked up and shook his head.

“I don’t think so."

Dorian rumbled an acknowledgement and stretched out the length of his body before curling up closer to the fire. Chairs weren’t an option for this but he’d piled up a collection of pillows quite comfortably so long as he was careful not to let them edge too close to the hearth.

He kept his eyes open a sliver, watching as his companion’s attention became reabsorbed in his reading.

He’d seen the collection of texts the elf had assembled at his chair – a few were elvish histories, related to the fall of Arlathan – Dorian suspected those remained untouched though:

Taralyn was sincere in his beliefs - the discovery of what the markings on his face had once meant would be a hurt too deep for him to hide. Dorian himself had been unable to bring himself to share what he knew, and trying to imagine the elf’s face without the tangle of the purple _vallaslin_ was an impossibility.

Which meant the focus of the studies was the other materials: Complex spell treaties, blood magic curses, transformation magic. He’d spotted a handwritten sheaf of notes in elven titled _Ashabellanar_ in Taralyn’s flowing script. Sketches of the magic circles invisible to the naked eye that formed the barrier around the house.

Dorian wouldn’t say anything but he knew without having to be told – Taralyn was studying to curse that held them to find a means of returning to his home, to his people.

It was a hopeless endeavor but he could understand the need to do _something_. Who knew? Maybe Taralyn would find a way through the barrier to freedom?

The thought of that sent the sharp pang of loneliness through his chest. He couldn’t – _wouldn’t_ – keep his friend prisoner here, but he’d miss him. Terribly so.


	9. Chapter 9

He eyed the book carefully, it wasn’t an easy spell – and technically it wasn’t one he should attempt. It opened up the way for too many demons and while he was good there was plenty that might tempt him – good intentions had always been one of the Dread Wolf’s favorite tools.

Taralyn massaged his temple lightly and leaned back for a moment, studying the room quietly.

Dorian had slipped down to his experiments some time ago – despite his complaints regarding how cold the lowest level was the draconic mage loved his studies, even after all these years, far too much to abandon the more time sensitive experiments simply because the weather was less than favorable.

The red haired elf tugged a length of soft white fur – from some animal he didn’t recognize but it was warm and he liked the texture when he ran his hand over it – back over his shoulders from where it’d slipped down earlier.

Perhaps he _should_ tell Dorian what he was doing? The other mage had centuries of study over him and a native’s understanding of the materials that he’d had to struggle to read. But….

Dorian had had _centuries_ like this, maybe longer. By Taralyn’s math Dorian had been transformed into his state before the Magisters of legend had walked the Fade. At least he’d had no idea what a Darkspawn was and Taralyn wasn’t sure his explanation had helped.

It was more than enough time for someone as brilliant as he was to have developed a counter-curse if he _wanted_ to be free. Instead he studied the abstractions of magic and the most obscure applications – time magic, while interesting, wasn’t something that was meant to work.

Time functioned the way it did for a _reason_ , he doubted the Creators had meant for mortals to turn it into a plaything. He’d seen enough of Dorian’s notes to know that it was all theoretical, the magic too unsafe for the other mage to be interested in attempting a more practical application of his research.

And now he was distracting himself from his own terrible idea.

Looking out he frowned at the window – snow. Just a few fluffy white flurries dancing down from the cloud-dark sky now. There’d be considerably more to join them soon.

Where would the Clan be now?

Closing his eyes he ran through his mental map of the Free Marches. South, on the Coast, he figured, the Trevelyan-Dunkirk border. The two families had good grazing for the season and they could usually camp without either family harassing them – a two century old rivalry meant soldiers approaching that border from either side ended up in a fight with the other family’s men rather than being able to chase the Dalish off the land.

If not there they would be in the valley low-lands north of Kirkwall, though Keeper Deshanna preferred not to venture too near Clan Sabrae. It wasn’t about the stories of them catching Fen’Harel’s eye, there was something else about the smaller Ferelden Clan that had spooked his teacher from venturing too near their southern brethren.

Hopefully they had collected enough for the halla, the snows there got too deep for them to forage easily and with the ground frozen it was difficult for Siona to call up the seeds hidden beneath the ground.

Without him there to aid Keeper Deshanna had Hal stepped up? The role of First was never one his twin had wanted…if anything he suspected Hal was looking forward to becoming a Wanderer. With his own absence…

What did his family even know about what had happened? Hal usually knew more than he was supposed to about everything, but not even his brother could guess about the cursed manor and the secrets that it had held. Did they think he was dead? Had they sung for him with the others who might have fallen in the attack? Did they think him lost to a life in the chains of the North?

Guilt sunk into his heart – he was _happy_ here without his family, with Dorian and the books. Happy to learn, and to laugh with the strange man. He should have wanted to go back to his people, to reassure his family he was safe and alive but -

The idea of leaving…he didn’t _want_ to, not alone.

And staying was now his _choice_ :

Not long ago he had found a way to punch a hole through the barrier, and a spell that should disorient, maybe even banish, the guardian wraiths but he had lingered here.

Dorian was still trapped – he _couldn’t_ leave.

He had stared at the ingredients of the spell, ready to cast it for the better part of the day, his gut twisting over the memory of grey eyes and the lonely echoes in a voice far too kind to belong to the monster that the spell seemed determine to paint Dorian. Eventually he had carefully packed the ingredients away and stored them beneath the bed in his room.

It was part of why he didn’t want Dorian looking at his notes – he kept them in elvish and often resorted to a shorthanded version that even Hal struggled to decipher: it made sense to _him_ , he didn’t see why everyone else saw the need to poke at it for being nearly unintelligible.

Dorian of all people though, would be capable of seeing through all of that, and Taralyn suspected that the other would not be so approving of the decision to linger here if he had known that there’d been a chance for him to return to his old life instead.

He’d return to his people – at least for a while – when he’d succeeded. Hopefully he could bring Dorian with…if Dorian wished to go.

He might want to return to Tevinter, unfamiliar as the Imperium would be it _had_ to be more familiar to the other mage than the South. If that was what the other chose breaking the spell would be the end of their...

“Friendship,” he told himself firmly, moving away from the window.

He frowned noticing something about the circles he had sketched – tilting his head to the side he drew the sketch from amongst his notes…

“Maybe that spell, inversed overlaid with…” he turned to his books, sorting through to the one he wanted to confirm it was what he was thinking.


	10. Chapter 10

The entire house shuddered under the pressure of the spell’s release, and Dorian rushed into the room which it had emanated from. In the center was Taralyn, staggering a little as he wiped blood from his nose with a grimace.

Flittering traces of magic dyed the blue-green color that the elf’s magic preferred to present itself as still fluttered through the air like lightning bugs and the circles drawn on the floor glowed coal-hot with the fading power.

The elf’s eyes took a moment to focus from somewhere distant and he looked sheepish as he stared at Dorian: “That, was, uh, louder than I thought it’d be?” he offered.

Hissing his frustration – if Taralyn was casting something that dangerous he should have asked for help. Half a glance to the fading designs showed what he suspected was a complex adaptation of some kind of scry spell combined with a few other elements involving sight and secrets. Those were high level spells _individually_.

“ _Festis bei umo canavarum_ ,” he reached out not even entirely aware of the mutter, grabbing the elf’s arm gently in an attempt to help stop the swaying. He had to be careful of his claws and strength, and though he might’ve squeezed a little too hard in his worry Taralyn didn’t try to pull himself out of his arms either. “What were you trying to do? Bring the house down on top of your head?”

“Needed to see,” the elf said, leaning into the grip on him for support. “Tell me the room isn’t really spinning. I think I should sit.”

Dorian frowned a little, carefully helping the elf sit and arranging himself as best he could near Taralyn – he didn’t want to be out of reach if he fainted or anything. This close he could almost hear the heart-beat.

“Your father was wrong, you know.”

He froze suddenly – How _did_ –

“You’re worth more than any of them,” Taralyn told him, massaging one of his temples gingerly with his fingers. “If they weren’t idiots you would have made them proud.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I _saw_ , Dorian. That’s what the spell was. I wanted to see how the curse came about – why it happened.”

“ _Kaffas_ ,” he swore, dragging his cumbersome form back off the ground to pace angrily. “You had no business – no right – seeing that!”

“I wanted to help you,” Taralyn’s bright green eyes were more focused – entirely too intense on him.

Dorian fixed him with a glare, “You wanted to break the curse so you could leave.”

That got a snort – “Not entirely untrue. I just don’t plan on being the only one to leave when I do, Dorian. You don’t deserve to be trapped here for forever.

“I am a monster, Taralyn,” he growled, his unnatural form making the sound a low rumbling – something dangerous. In the early days a tone like that would have earned him a fireball to the face or something similar.

Now the red head stared at him flatly, thoroughly unimpressed. “No. You are not.”

“Yes, I _am_ ,” he hissed. “Look at me.”

“I am, Dorian,” he sighed, and got carefully back to his feet – ever the fighter the waning aftereffects of the spell did little to make his footsteps unsteady. Dorian nearly flinched as a hand came to rest on his scaled paw.

“You don’t understand…I look like _this_ , I’m monster,” he whispered eyes on that place where Taralyn was touching him. “And I still want to keep you with me forever, even at all that it would cost you – I am a selfish ass-”

If he could cry he was certain he would have had tears down his cheeks. Or would have started crying once the other gentle hand had been laid on his face, carefully below his eye and away from the muzzle of sharp pointed teeth.

“Dorian, I love you too. I don’t want to leave this place while you are still trapped here, _vhenan_.”

He stared – he couldn’t have heard that right. Did Taralyn say-? And that elvish…no, surely he was mistaken.

“Stop looking so confused,” the elf huffed, looking away as color rose beneath the freckles on his tanned cheeks to the tips of his ears. Green eyes glanced back him and then he stood up on his tip toes to press a soft kiss on the side of his muzzle.

The light was warm and golden spilling out around them – like sunlight on the shore of the lake where Mother had used to watch him play from the shaded veranda. It was warm and gentle, and somewhere distantly he swore he could hear a low feminine chuckle from somewhere far away.

When the light faded he blinked – Taralyn was taller. Still shorter than him but not by as much. He also looked surprised very surprised, a hand reaching hesitantly to brush through Dorian’s hair… _hair_ not a thick mane of coarse fur but hair.

“You’re human…the spell’s gone: can you feel it?”

Dorian looked down at his hands in surprise, it had been so long since he’d seen them last. They still glittered with rings he’d forgotten he had been wearing that night so long ago. “How?”

Taralyn shook his head, “I didn’t cast anything...maybe? No,” he shook his head, laughing sheepishly. “That only happens in the old stories.”

He didn’t ask what Taralyn had considered – he didn’t need to. The kiss, it couldn’t be a coincidence the spell had faded away with that.

Dorian’s eyes sparkled with laughter as he pulled the other man closer to him so that he might whisper “Thank you, _Amatus_ ” against his lips as he kissed him again.

He had waited a thousand years for to find happiness once more – he would not squander it questioning _why_. At least not today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've reached the end.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, I hope ya'll have enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it.
> 
> I'd like to do more "fairy tale" themed fics like this in the future with other DA romances - if you have anyone you'd like to see for a particular story let me know. ^^

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed please leave a kudos or a comment!
> 
> Also feel free to drop by and visit me on tumblr at [@Aly-the-writer](https://aly-the-writer.tumblr.com/)!


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